


Through Time

by AmberKellyDarrow



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Artist Reader, Closeted Character, Depression, F/M, Trans Character, Young Rick, possible drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 01:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10820739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberKellyDarrow/pseuds/AmberKellyDarrow
Summary: 1977, you an artist and Rick Sanchez, live in a shit apartment with 4 jobs between them and struggle to make ends meet, but they love each other. Follow through the years and watch your life unfold, as you grow and change to 2016.





	Through Time

Fall 1977

You woke up to the sun bathing your back in warmth and the radiant heat from Rick’s chest warming your front. Your left side was on his chest with your arms half around him and his around you. You slowly moved up on the bed and over him, one leg on either side of his tiny frame, you began to lightly pepper his face with kisses. He woke up and smiled at you, “Good morning sleepy head.” you giggled, grazing his lips now.

“Is it still morning?” He groaned, sliding a hand up your back and the other moving a hair from your face.

Still smiling you tried your best to grind against his groin, “It’s like 11, places won’t even serve us breakfast this late.”

“I think the fact we just had to chose between the bank repoing the car, or heat this winter, is why they won’t serve us.” He grumbled, but bucked his hips once you found an angle that worked.

“They don’t know we can’t pay ‘till we leave.”

“Fair enough.”

Several more minutes of half hearted grinding and slightly sleepy kissing and nipping he threw his weight flipping you under him, his hand ghosting over your side and over your hip, his thumb rubbing at the bundle of nerves it so often found. 

You loved him in part for his body, something in the combination of his lanky, ashen frame with the sheer size of his member, in part for his mind, and part for the personality those things created.

 

Winter 1977

You were painting him again, at the kitchen counter with his trash built experiments, hair a mess, his back was hunched over his work as his long legs rested on the floor as he sat on one of the two stools you’d gotten on the side of the road. You were on the other one, childrens water colour layering on cheap canvas, your feet ached from two back to back shifts at two separate diner’s, your flask sat near your heart in the hem pocket of your oversized shirt. You were wearing two layers of everything and a glove on your non- dominant hand to say warm, and you worried that the car might still be repossessed if the landlord decided to up the rent again this January, but you were happy. In love and happy.

 

Summer 1978

Rick zippered the back of your dress, you turn to fix his tie and  drop your flask of repulsively high proof whisky in his jacket. He drove, practically beaming the whole way to your 5 th gallery opening, you had been making enough from the paintings you were able to quit one of the waitress jobs. Before going in you took a sip from the flask and looped your and Rick’s arms together. 

 

Winter 1779

You grabbed the mail, putting the bills in the pile with the rest in the kitchen, you opened the cupboard to see if you would have dinner tonight or not, thinking there was still a bag of rice in the back you pulled out the box of cereal you had thought was empty. You noticed something in the corner of your eye in the box and looked again, there were papers, you took one out.

 

_ Rick, _

_ I’ve been to the doctor, it’s yours, it can only be yours. _

_ I want 500 dollars or you.  _

_ S- _

 

You took another.

_ Sanchez I want that new gun by next week. _

_ John _

Another.

_ 600 at the coffee shop at first and main by friday, don’t fuck us over Sanchez. _

_ John _

 

Another.

_ Rick, _

_ 700 or I tell  _ HER

_ S- _

 

You didn’t know how old these were, you didn’t care, you couldn’t read another. You opened the window of your second story apartment and began dropping his things into the alley, his weird trash experiments, his clothes, everything that he owned, you shoved the letters into the box and closed it. You didn’t notice you also threw out your favorite of two flasks- the one he had gotten you -into the alley. The tears pricked at your eyes and you took gulping breaths to keep them at bay, you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. You waited nearly an hour before he came home, it was darkening outside and had started to rain just slightly. “What happened, did someone rob us?” there was panic in his voice and you half laughed.

“No. I don’t want to see your face again, I want your keys and I want you gone, your things are in the alley.”

“Wha- what’s wrong?” He came up to you on arm on your wrist one on your cheek. You shoved him away from you.

“These.” You said trying to sound put together, but voice cracking slightly as you threw the cereal box to his chest.

He didn’t say anything or move for a while as you stared at him the longer you did the less you wanted to burst into tears, he put the keys on the table and turned to leave, as he opened the door he said. “I’m so sorry.” You watched him leave unsure what betrayal stung more.

You fell to the bed in the tiny apartment and sobbed, horrific ugly sobs with violent gasping as you held the sheets you once shared with the man you still loved and breathed in his sent, his ghost filled the one large open room for months.

 

Spring 1985

You walk down the aisle towards Bradley Walkham, a man whose family had influence and helped get one of your paintings sold for more than 2000 dollars. You liked him well enough, and after the I Do’s, when he cupped your face and he kissed you like he loved you, you guessed he did.

 

Summer 1987

You’re painting the nursery to your first child's room, Bradley holds a camera, taking several photo’s of you in a horrible looking maternity dress, latter when the camera was away he turned the radio to a big band station and you danced laughing.

 

Fall 1987

Baby shower, games, cake and people related to you only by marriage giving you all their contradicting tips and touching you without asking. You don’t know if you’re happy.

 

Spring 1988

You don't know, you try to paint, it’s helped you before, but now you stare at the blank expensive canvas for hours, the professional watercolours lay to waste.

 

Fall 1992

Another child, the perfect family, working man with a bank job, pretty wife with an art hobby, a son, and a daughter.

The husband’s in the closet, he visits male prostitutes on weekends.

The wife, she drinks, she always has but it’s getting worse. It’s showing in her portraits.

 

Winter 1998 

Your painting again, on more than a hobby level and are commissioned for several expensive pieces by people in power including the president.

 

Spring 2005

Your son confides he feels more like a girl than a boy, you and Bradley support him as much a possible. By summer your child is in heaven, a hate attack at a club is to blame. You paint through the grief, your flask is never full anymore.

 

Summer 2007

Bradley asks for a divorce, his friend - boyfriend, wanted to live together. You knew it was coming. You wanted him to be happy, the separation was calm and clean.

 

Maybe 2010

You've lost track. Your daughter finds you one day, passed out at the kitchen table, at noon surrounded by empty bottles. She helps you, you hate her for part of it, but after a few months in the rehab center you realize just how far you’d fallen.

 

May 2016

You’re at the opening of a new showing at the national art gallery, it catalogs your life, it’s the first time you allowed one of you ashen area works to be shown, an eccentric looking man comes up to you, he reeks of alcohol, and you see him take out a flask, something about it, how weathered it is maybe brings back the itch, and for the first time in a year you want it, you think you know this man, so much had been lost though to the drinking and years. “Would it be possible to purchase on of the original Ashen Era’s, money's no object here?” He asked sounding tipsy, you squinted at him, something about his face seemed familiar, you thought you recognized a small scar on his eyebrow, or the lopsided grin, the sickly looking skin or maybe the hairstyle.

“No, I’m sorry sir, the Ashen Paintings come from a very early part of my mother's life that she would rather keep to herself, the emotions going with each piece being so strong, I can however show you some in a similar style from the 90’s they’re…”  You’re daughter led the strange man away from you. A young girl came over to you and looking nervous held a still wet painting, holding it out to you as far up at her six year old arms could reach, you took the paper, still damp with acrylic, it was a dog and grass with the classic corner sun, “Do you like it, is it very good?” she asked, you smiled and hugged her.

“It’s fantastic.”

You knew you were happy. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> See what else I'm working on, fb.me/AmberKellyDarrow


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